


come as you are

by witchlamb



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Named Inquisitor, Post-Trespasser, also brief mention of varric and merrill, brief mention of the chargers, i usually don't use the inquisitor's name but, so TRESPASSER SPOILERS, sorry this was super self-indulgent, yanno i just needed some personal fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 02:18:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13824411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchlamb/pseuds/witchlamb
Summary: post-epilogue epilogue. completely self-indulgent fluff.





	come as you are

Padraig winced as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of the mid-morning sun as he stepped out of his aravel. He was immediately headbutted in the side and turned, laughing and startled, to press that hand to the top of his halla's snout as she huffed and pawed the ground, annoyed. "Sorry," he said. "Guess I lost track of time." He gave her a fond scratch behind the horns in the spot she particularly preferred as he glanced around. "Everyone all right?" He heard a faint chorus of bleating, but otherwise the herd paid him little mind save a few cursory greetings the way one might acknowledge a friend from the other room. The herd had come in -- often they'd wander to graze around dawn, then return to rest and relax here, where they were sheltered by apple trees and near a spring, true, but also protected by him. This was his favourite place to camp, nestled in a valley bursting with a thick carpet of late-spring flowers, though he knew he shouldn't come here so often nor linger so long; it wasn't safe. He'd have to move on soon.

He gave Athera another thump on the shoulder before turning, reaching with his right hand to check the line of the aravel's sails. Steady, secure. They'd hold, though he was always paranoid about them giving at the wrong moment. That done, he headed back inside. He really had lost track of time -- he'd been working on a personal project, checking the strength of the Veil in the area.

His stomach rumbled, so he grabbed a pan and lit a fire, glowing eerily green, under it with a clumsy gesture of his hand. Even after so long getting accustomed to it, using his off-hand exclusively had a steep learning curve. That done, he grabbed a bit of rabbit from his cold-box and tossed it on the pan to fry up along with a sprinkling of herbs, attention divided between the rabbit, the kettle he'd put on, and poring over his notes from the morning. He'd just sat down to eat absent-mindedly when a muffled voice whispered to him from behind a curtain.

Peering at it, he frowned, then reached over to brush the fabric aside.

"Are you awake?" a quiet voice said.

He laughed. "Dorian, it's nearly the middle of the afternoon here. Of course I'm awake. What time is it in Minrathous, anyway?"

"Dawn," Dorian said through the sending crystal Padraig usually kept hung on the wall when he was 'at home.' His voice seemed... hoarse, or was Pad imagining that? "Before dawn, actually..."

"Oh, no. You're still ill?" Dorian from hundreds of miles away let out the most piteous groan he'd ever heard, and Pad laughed again. "You know, if you'd used those herbs I'd sent you you would have been better in a day or two. But no, you had to drag it out, of course."

Dorian sniffled in such an uncharacteristic way that Padraig did, for a minute, feel sorry for him. "Of course. Just for the drama of it all. You know me."

"Mm." He sat with his legs crossed tailor-style, blowing on his drink. "Or more likely to skip work?"

Dorian scoffed, a noise cut off by a hacking cough. "I object to this accusation. Utter bollocks. What slander. I've never skipped work in my life."

" _Mm._ " The former Lord Inquisitor did not sound convinced. "Anyway, did you need me?"

"Aside from the soothing tones of your dulcet voice, which are at this very moment healing the otherwise incurable deadly illness from which I suffer? Yes, actually. Is Bull with you? I had a question that I don't trust a raven with." 

It must have been serious if that were the case, but not so serious that he hadn't led the conversation with it, so Padraig chose not to worry about it. "No, he's not here. The Chargers have some job down south. If it's not urgent, leave a message with me, I'll get it to him. We're supposed to meet in Kirkwall in a fortnight anyway."

"Oh- _ho._ " He could practically hear the up-and-down waggling of Dorian's manicured eyebrows. "Well, I do hope you'll warn your neighbours. About the _noise._ "

Padraig wrinkled his nose. "Ugh. In that awful estate. I think Varric picked the one he knew I'd hate the most."

"Probably," Dorian agreed, perversely cheerful, two words that described him in conjunction far more often than needed. "Yes, do take a message. Oh, and by the way, I'm still working on that little surprise for you."

Padraig paused meaningfully. "Dorian, when you say 'little surprise' in _that_ tone, I'm one-hundred-percent convinced it's a set of gilded Tevinter dildos."

"Well, now you've ruined the surprise!"

He laughed and set down his now-empty cup. "Go back to bed, Dorian. And steep those herbs, you'll feel better."

He could practically hear him waving a hand dismissively from hundreds of miles away. "Yes, yes, mother, no need to scold me. Have fun with your big oaf." 

With a fond smile Padraig covered the crystal again as its glow faded. He put the supplies away -- aravels were mainly meant for storage, and the front half of his was designed as such, with various drawers and cubbyholes for storing the very basic necessities he needed to live, including all the things he could not make or find on his own. The other half was covered in a thin mattress and a pile of soft woven blankets and pillows, not so much a bed as it was a nest. It came in handy when it was raining or snowing outside... but also after the poison ivy incident, Bull preferred to sleep 'indoors'.

And do other things... indoors.

Anxious bleating outside caught his attention and his head rose first, mouth curving into a frown as he grabbed his staff -- the sword was his preferred weapon but if there was danger he had no time to attach the prosthetic that held his shield, and the staff was easier one-handed -- and slipped from the confines of the aravel to see his halla milling about restlessly, bleating and shaking their heads and tails. "What is it?" he asked, resting a soothing hand on the snout of one of the younger does as he listened for what was frightening them. There, he felt it, under his feet -- hoofbeats. Many of them. Frowning more deeply, he concentrated on the vibrations he felt from the earth, crouching and pressing his hand to the ground. Many of them, shod horses, including one very large one -- perhaps a destrier? -- riding leisurely, and... one much lighter tread, it felt almost like halla --

Flinging the staff irresponsibly to the ground he took off running, feet swallowing up meters of ground as he dashed his way up the hill, crashing through the brush and leaping over beds of flowers and herbs. His heart pounded in his chest, breath stolen from his lungs as he skidded over the crest of the hill to a stop on top. His eyes swept over the ground below him, and there, he saw it -- a dozen mounts riding hard towards him. One halla-mounted rider. And in front of them, on a massive rouncey --

His heart filled with joy, he let out a whoop that echoed down the rolling hills as he took off towards them, his feet carrying him so swiftly over the grass that he barely even touched the ground. He could see the Iron Bull urge his horse on until, when they were halfway apart, he swung his massive legs around and leapt off, landing with a heavy stumbling thud into a half-run towards him, but he wasn't fast enough to meet Padraig halfway before Padraig flew across the distance between them and flung himself at him, slamming into him so hard he almost knocked Bull off-balance despite Padraig's diminutive frame, Bull's strong arms crushing him against his chest as he swung him around fast enough to make him his head spin and his stomach flip.

He could hear the Chargers laughing as they caught up. But it was a distant, far-away sound, his attention caught by the way Bull's mouth pressed to his so hard it bruised his mouth, his tongue occupying that space, his hands splayed across Padraig's back, and Padraig's feet dangling nearly two feet off the ground. His mouth, his nose, his eyes, everything full of him, the scent and taste and sight of his handsome scarred face, the rough callused skin of his mauled hands, his frankly rather rank qunari sweat, even the uncomfortable scratching pressure where the metal bits of his traveling armour dug into Padraig's chest and arms. He had to pull up gasping for air, panting between heavy kisses, legs scrambling for purchase as he tried to wrap them around Bull's chest, too broad for Padraig's slight frame. He felt feather-light. Transcendent with joy, with _relief._ He was back -- he was well -- he was unharmed. 

"You're here! You're early! You found me!" 

Bull grabbed him by the waist and hoisted him into the air, tossing him over his shoulder like he weighed as much as a sack of grain. "All the rest of you _fuck off_ ," Bull said, already taking giant strides down into the valley towards the stream, where he knew Padraig's aravel would be camped. 

"Not like we want to hear that anyway, chief," Krem called, dismounting and gesturing for the others to do the same. Upwind. They'd come a little closer to set up camp, but not for... maybe an hour. ... or two. ... or three. 

... a disadvantage of no longer having a castle: camping out on open ground offered _very little_ in the way of real _privacy._

Padraig, meanwhile, dangling over the Iron Bull's back, was laughing, beating at his back with his stump, kicking his legs. "Put me down!" 

"No," Bull growled, hand lifting and spanking him in a way that was less rebuke and more playful despite his tone.

"Put me _down_!" he repeated, flailing wildly, though Bull knew full well he was already playing, that if Padraig really wanted him to stop, he knew what word he had to say to make him _stop._ Plus, he kept giggling nervously. 

" _No,_ " Bull said again, and so saying threw open the door of Lavellan's aravel -- the one built too big for a single elf because it was made with someone much larger in mind -- and threw him halfway across it to land in a soft whump on his nest of blankets and pillows. The doorway darkened with his bulk, and the door slammed shut. 

 

Some time later he lay on top of Bull, sighing deeply as his whole body lifted and fell with the steady calm breathing of the man under him. He loved laying like this, using him as a mattress. Bull's body was soft and round -- from age, partially, but also from too many Orlesian cakes and brown liquors. 

"Don't go away again," he murmured, eyes closed as he breathed in his scent. 

"I won't. We're going to Kirkwall, remember?" Bull had one hand spread over Padraig's back, the other gently holding his stump, thumb stroking over the scarred bare skin just over where his elbow had been before he'd lost it. "We'll stay a little bit, huh? Somewhere with a real bed so I can tie you down right. And if we're lucky, hardware in the ceiling."

"Mmmmm," Pad responded. Noncommittally. Not to being tied down, of course, he was always up for that. But to Kirkwall.

Bull ran the back of his knuckles up his arm. "What, you don't want to go? Don't want to see Varric?"

Padraig grunted grumpily, burying his face in Bull's broad chest. "No, I want to see him... and everyone else, just... fuck, I hate Kirkwall."

Bull laughed. "Fair."

Padraig grunted again, making a big fuss about his grumpiness until Bull ran his fingers through his curls to soothe him. He quieted then, laying with his cheek pressed between Bull's pecs, staring through the tiny porthole on the side of the aravel to the green grass and gently swaying trees outside. The aravel's walls were thin enough that he could hear the wind, and the quiet burbling of the stream by which he'd camped.

Kirkwall was just the worst, but it made for a convenient base of operations until they moved to Tevinter. Padraig preferred to remain mobile, but stayed close enough to the city that he could be found by those who knew where to look if he was needed -- and he was needed, often. It would be years, maybe decades before he could truly slip quietly into retirement, if such a thing would ever happen -- if he survived the war to come. He'd been lucky to live through the Breach. 

Had Solas not taken the whole arm, the anchor would have killed him. As it was, the scars remained. He'd never have the hand back, and the wrinkled mess at the end of his stump still made him a little queasy to look at. 

Varric would have reports -- he held on to Padraig's correspondence, because Padraig could trust him to keep it _private_ \-- and he'd have to dance around the bronto in the room that was his souring relationship with Orlais as the Dalish quietly gathered. And there were other, domestic concerns, too. Affairs he had to put into order, legal things that he hated and did not really understand.

He was in the process of remodeling the estate Varric had given him to go along with his title in Kirkwall -- and arranging for an elf to have a title of nobility _anywhere_ in Thedas would have been an absolute clusterfuckery of legal finangling, he had no idea how Varric had managed it -- from a large and utterly useless building he would never use to a series of apartments he rented for a nominal fee to servants and labourers who worked in Hightown. It worked out on many levels. Those servants and their families no longer needed to trek all the way back to the alienage every night -- and Lowtown was still dangerous despite Varric's efforts as viscount, particularly the closer you got to the alienage's walls -- and the income was funneled back into the alienage. Varric's friend, the Dalish woman, she'd come back after his election as viscount and had gotten to work right quick trying to make the place more livable. The money from Padraig's renters was going to repairing homes, building a school, startup capital for businesses by elves for elves... She had a lot of plans for Kirkwall's alienage, and Padraig was happy to help. Fascinating woman. They must have met at an arlathvhen ages ago when they were both apprentices but he didn't remember her. 

All of that involved a lot of paperwork, as it turned out, and he was in over his head with it all. Bureaucracy was just the Game written down.

And there was so much else he had to do, aside from that -- they'd be on their way to Tevinter soon, and he was anxious about crossing the border, knowing his freedom would be restricted, that there would be no more long quiet sojourns alone but that he would need a guard present at all times... and he could not put off his petition for the Dales until after the war that was coming, knowing full well he was likely to incite another one... and once in Tevinter it would be the Inquisition all over again, but even worse, and he would be shackled to the role of commander, no longer in the field to fight personally but stuck behind a desk, giving orders to agents and soldiers he may never meet in person... and Solas --

He grunted as he was rolled over, falling into the space next to Bull, on the right side. His husband tucked him into the crook of his arm, drawing him in tight to his side. Where his one eye could watch him. "Take a nap, kadan," he murmured. "Take a break. All the crap you're worrying about will still be there in a few hours." 

"Thanks for reminding me," he grumped. Bull's hand slid along his side, cupped his stump in his palm and stroked gently over the bare scarred skin where the limb terminated with conscious tenderness. He was brooding so deeply it took him a long time to realise Bull's head hadn't moved the whole time, pointed at him, his one remaining eye fixed on his face. Right on his face. Padraig kept glancing at him, then looking away, then glancing back.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, self-conscious. He was not the same as he was when Bull first met him. Older. Mutilated --

"You." He was looking at him, really looking -- his eye sweeping over his face, taking in the new scars over his nose and jaw from Hakkon Wintersbreath, the growing lines from stress and fear, the new bulk of muscle built in his shoulders and arms since he'd picked up the sword over the staff, and how his left arm just... ended several inches above where the elbow had been, a smooth surprising end to his slender limb, the bottom edge laid black-scarred and bare instead of covered in cotton and attached to one of several prosthesis. The Iron Bull's hand closed around the edge of his stump. "You are so beautiful."

His face flushed with a hot wash of stinging warmth, which settled into his bones and spread throughout the rest of his body, relaxing his belly and easing the tension in his shoulders he hadn't even realised was there. Pleasure pulsed through him, a kind of fluttery surprise, which was stupid, because he knew full well that that was how Bull felt, even if sometimes he didn't _feel_ like it -- worried that he no longer found him attractive, which was also stupid, given the mauling Bull's face had endured --

He felt a hand cup his chin and force his head back up, force him to look him in the eye. "You are so damn beautiful, kadan," Bull murmured. "I think about it all the time. I can't believe I get to look at you as often as I do."

Padraig's stomach flipped, fluttering and nervous with the touch of tenderness he felt whenever he looked at Bull's face, touched his skin, breathed in the scent of him. "I love you," he said.

Bull ran his hand through his curls, tugging through a knot. "I know. Every second of every day, kadan, I know that that's true." "Now sleep. I'll be right here." He trailed his hand down Padraig's neck to his chest, fingers pinching the edges of the dragon's tooth he always wore, tugging it gently before laying his palm flat against the left side of Padraig's chest. He felt himself drifting heavily under the warmth of his body, against the steady rhythm of his fingers and hands against him, the deep rumbling cadence of his rough voice.  
"I'll always be right here."


End file.
